HD M8B: The Sequel! Part 2/?
NB: Lucius, as I've been advisedt, is terribly far afield of his IC. In fact, he's loitering about in an entirely different topography altogether. This (being unashamed pointless Crack!PWP) is to be expected. Please forgive all character derangement; no doubt I shall be indulging in yet more of it
"Father."
Draco had snatched the opportunity to confront his pater familias whilst his mother was gathering her wrap, gloves, millenary and sundry other absolutely necessary accoutrements for their planned luncheon out. Potter was occupied overseeing the picnic he and Draco were employing as a convenient escape hatch from the Manor. They'd settled on the consumption of a quick al fresco meal at the Hollow (now under restoration as a future weekend get-away cottage), to be followed by their usual Sunday afternoon visit to the blathering occupants of the St. Mungo's Muggle ward.
The larger part of Draco's attention was therefore on the possibilities of rogering Potter, also al fresco, with perhaps a smattering of vinaigrette for lube, and the various Cushioning and Insect Repellent charms he'd need to sustain, along with his nearly ever-active boner. It was a pleasant prospect for a hazy, lazy summer's day; far more so than the obligatory warning off of his dodgy, ethically-challenged Papa.
"Yes, son?"
Lucius was toying with his second Firewhiskey of the morning, and thus far more at ease than he'd been at breakfast. It was his habit to consume three Firewhiskies before any social event organized by his wife; Lucius had developed a keen sense of survival over the years, to his credit. Excepting that one time with the Dark Lord…oh, but he wouldn't dwell on that.
Sadly, Firewhiskey tended to render Lucius ruminative, even when he'd no desire to dwell.
There was a Potter in his house, Lucius recalled angrily, a Potter! And his own blood-and-flesh had not only allowed such a blasphemy to occur, he'd gone and sodding well arranged it! A blasted Potter! The Boy Who Had the Utter Gall to extricate both Lucius and his precious family from the tentacles of the Dark Lord's unfortunately overlong (and, apparently, sadly evil-who knew?) reach! Pah! Feh! Lucius thought, developing a minor facial tic at the utter nerve of that pitiful, shabby, irritating excuse for a Mudblood, Halfblood, and likely illegitimate Wizard playing such a large role in his own salvation! Lucius was properly appalled at his family's changed circumstances and quite honestly happy to be feeling that way. One should be appalled by Potters.
Sadly, though, his only son-and-heir was now forever Bonded, henceforth and of his own volition, to that exact same appalling, shabby, disingenuous, green-eyed, shaggy-haired growth on the arsecheeks of the Earth. And—worse yet—Lucius now needed Potter's aid in obtaining a black shiny Omniscient Ball of the sort his son owned…or perhaps he simply needed to acquire his son's Ball, Lucius concluded, craftily.
Draco, observing the play of emotions across his father's haughty visage, instantly distrusted his father's smile, with good reason. He struck instantly, getting the first blow in whilst his Father was still cogitating.
"Father, when precisely do you and Mother intend to return to the villa in Juan-les-Pins? Or Paris? Or even the Continent, as a whole?"
"Why do you ask, son?" Lucius settled back into his armchair by the hearth and allowed his welcoming, paternal smile to thin out, morphing into an oblique, off-putting slash. "Is there some sort of…issue?"
"No issue, Father," Draco snapped, "other than the fact Harry is not appreciative of your apparently extended plans to visit and, as Harry is not, neither am I. We've both regular jobs, you know. Nine to five, and that's not taking into account the special cases on the weekends! Responsibilities, Father—deadlines! We can't faff off any time we please, entertaining you."
"It's Harry...then, who is 'not appreciative'," Lucius returned, meditatively. "How very, very…appalling."
"'Malfoy'," Draco rejoined, automatically. "'Harry James Potter Malfoy', to be exact. I did the marrying, thus 'Malfoy'. And it is appalling, Father. You and Mother shouldn't even be in Britain; you've been exiled by the Ministry, remember?"
"Yes, yes, I do recall it. No need to remind me, boy," Lucius admitted, with dry impatience, and then scowled at his all too vivid recollection of becoming acquainted with his only-son-and-heir's recent Bonding via the Howler forwarded by one Molly Weasley, Nosey Parker, but he didn't allow all the pungent and descriptive phrases he'd stored up to spew forth. "Your lovely mother, Draco," Lucius said instead, adroitly changing the subject to something more immediately pressing, "is oddly taken by that Muggle device. I do wonder if…"
"If?" Draco cocked a brow, rocking back in his heels and readying himself for potential hexing. "Father?"
"If you might be persuaded to give it over, son. You know her birthday's in the offing."
Draco twitched his fair brows together and furrowed his forehead. "Of course I know, Father. Harry and I have already chosen an appropriate gift—I hardly think she needs my Eight Ball. My used Muggle Eight Ball."
"As I said, son," Lucius repeated, "'oddly taken with'. No accounting for a Witches' taste, what?" he added jovially, and then made a great business of tapping his chin with a neatly-kept forefinger, as if considering Draco's situation on the whole. "Oh—well, I suppose you wouldn't know, would you, as you don't appear to have dealings with attractive well-bred Witches in any way at this time in your young life, having recently acquired your precious Potter."
"Father," Draco's return sneer was cold and cutting—nay, outright dangerous. "Say one single word against Harry and the Manor wards will be closed to you permanently."
"Of course, son; but of course!"
Lucius instantly became more than jovial; he was officious, which had the unfortunate effect of rendering his overall appearance somewhat constipated. Malfoys did not do 'officious' terribly well. They were much more suited to 'demanding', or even 'superior'. In a pinch, 'smarmy'.
"Wouldn't dream of it, son; perfectly understandable of you to valiantly attempt to defend your Bondmate's sorry arse—"
"Father."
"As he is your chosen Bondmate and all that. Never wish to offend my heir, naturally, even if..." Lucius's inflammatory words dribbled to a halt; for he was at once made overwhelmingly aware, perhaps, that he'd firmly put his foot in it. His son's stern features and body language (and that pernicious wand of his, damn Draco's youthful reflexes!) were all indicating that Lucius had strayed into potentially personally debilitating territory.
"See that you don't, then," Draco ordered sharply. He tilted his chin in a determined manner, awaiting his father's next sally. Certainly, Lucius Malfoy wouldn't allow a little thing like an outright threat of expulsion from their centuries-old family home prevent him from clawing after whatever he now desired. That was the Malfoy Way. Draco, for all his finer feelings for that oaf Potter, did understand this. Indeed, he subscribed.
"Now, as to that 'Eight Ball', as you call it—" Lucius got right back into the game, undaunted.
"No," Draco replied flatly. "You can't have mine, Father. But, I will provide you the direction to the Muggle toy store Harry mentioned. It's near enough the Alley."
"Ah…so." Lucius regarded his son's set face and specific species of killer, evil glare. Touchy, touchy! P'raps there's something to Cissy's natterings on as to a potential grandchild after all, he speculated silently, and forlornly resolved to keep a firmer check upon his natural aversion to all things Potter—er, Malfoy. 'Harry James Potter Malfoy'. Because, even more unfortunately, 'once a Malfoy, always a Malfoy'. That was The Way.
"Thank you," he remembered to tack on, meekly enough, conceding defeat for the nonce. He'd hate to be rash if Potter was indeed breeding; Cissy would not forgive him, Muggle Ball or no.
Draco waved his wand once, and a small sheet of parchment appeared, etched with a map of central London and a written set of directions. "Here you go, Father. Do have a nice luncheon with your friends. And do stay out of trouble."
He nodded politely and shut the study door smartly behind him, leaving Lucius alone-to instantly gulp down the rest of his whiskey and pour himself another double.
Tossing that off, Lucius winced at his deeply disguised inner purgatory over the matter of Potter, gagging silently at the thought of facing such a thing over the breakfast table till he, himself, was too wretched and feeble to drag himself from his suite to do so. There was absolutely no doubt in Lucius's mind that his poor, deluded, son-and-only-heir Draco was quite firmly attached to this…this appallingly-no-longer-a-Potter. That being the case, and Narcissa's not-so-secret desire for a grandbaby to fuss over taken into account, there was likely no being shed of the little twerp in his natural lifespan, short of convenient death or accident.
But the absolute worst thing was—the real kicker—Lucius's lovely wife Narcissa apparently adored the annoyingly foreshortened ex-Gryffindor and so-called 'Saviour' twat just as much as she adored their real son, Draco. And if Narcissa adored Potter, Lucius's objections to the match were pretty much toast on the turning spit. Burnt, brittle, dry-as-dust, store-purchased Muggle toast.